


A Lot Like Life

by Blake



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Era, Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Magical Penetration, Post-Canon, Resurrection, Rimming, Role Reversal, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Smut, lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29905041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: “You were servant to a respected king. I’m servant to a court sorcerer; you’re already scandal incarnate, no matter what I do or say.” Arthur kneels down to look up at him, to prove a point or to make Merlin’s stomach twist in longing—or, more likely, both. “They probably all think you’ve enchanted your poor, innocent manservant, anyway.”or,Queen Guinevere and her Court Sorcerer take political advice from their new servant, who doesn't look at all like the recently deceased King Arthur (until he's behind the closed doors of Merlin's quarters.)
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 87
Collections: Merlin Bingo





	A Lot Like Life

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this was going to be one thousand words of fluff, then it turned into one thousand words of fluff and two thousand words of smut! Kudos to me for managing to wring so many fic titles out of one song. A couple of content warnings:
> 
> I read and portray Arthur and Gwen's marriage as a lavender marriage. Gwen and Merlin's respective relationships to Arthur are too carefully paralleled (and too rarely divergent) for me to read it any other way: Arthur's marriage to Gwen allows for his illicit relationship with Merlin, and he could not have one without the other. Therefore, any time I write post-season four, I will inevitably portray Arthur and Merlin having a sexual and romantic relationship while Arthur is (sexlessly but lovingly) married to Gwen, with consent and understanding on all sides. This is not cheating, but if it is upsetting to you for whatever reason, then turn back now.
> 
> This story contains consensual kinky dirty talk surrounding the _idea_ of non-consent. There is no actual dub-con or non-con in the story, aside from that one time Merlin made Arthur wear a crop top and wash dishes.

“Some more water, please,” Merlin says, tilting his head up to flash a cheeky grin at the boy standing at his side and just a step behind him, the proper place for a servant of the court to stand.

He sees Arthur’s jaw clench on both his faces: his true one, which only Merlin can see shimmering beneath the surface of his magic, and the face made up of glamour, which is only just different enough to prevent suspicion about Camelot’s court sorcerer’s manservant resembling its recently deceased king.

“Yes, my lord,” Arthur says sullenly as he obeys, because he’s rotten at having fun. Merlin is of the opinion that after all the grief and mistakes of the past few years, he should be allowed to find a bit of enjoyment in the fact that Arthur is now in disguise as his servant, and that Arthur should find some enjoyment in it too. After all, playing servant to sorcerer who can make a bed with the snap of his fingers is much easier than actually _being_ a servant to a spoiled king who can’t comb his own hair.

There’s a rustling of silk as Gwen leans over onto Merlin’s half of the head of the table, a playful smile demurely lifting just the corners of her mouth. “What’s the matter, Merlin?” she asks, glancing back and forth between the two of them, though Merlin notices her eyes don’t tend to linger on Arthur when he’s disguised like this. She’s the only other soul who knows of Arthur’s return, but that does not mean he can cast his spell to allow her to see past the unsettling image of Arthur’s not-quite-real face. “Is your servant giving you trouble again?”

“Nothing but,” Merlin answers briskly, throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder. Hurt pride shines through Arthur’s annoyed expression. Merlin knows that Arthur’s difficulty with acting as servant has little to do with status, and more to do with not being able to excel at the tasks expected of him. There’s a fine line between teasing him and hurting his feelings, and Merlin finds it easily. “You should see him try to polish my bed posts. He makes such a ruckus, keeps me up all night.”

Arthur goes a bit red, but there’s warmth and happiness in it, rather than frustration or irritation. Gwen, however, turns back to face the hall with her eyes still rolling. “I don't think I _should_ see that, thank you,” she says, laughter in her voice beneath her mask of calm indifference; Merlin often wonders if having two faces, a public and a private one, is an inherent condition of royalty, with or without magical assistance. 

Beside him, Arthur melts into a relaxed smile, fiercely fond as ever of the woman who agreed to be his queen in public without being his wife in private. Merlin is somewhat grateful that those days of the past are over. The amount of furtive sneaking from one set of chambers to another was exhausting, and he would occasionally grow morose when overhearing gossip in the marketplace that celebrated the happy royal marriage and completely failed to miss the fact that its happiness was founded on clear communication, friendship, and an enormous amount of trust.

He’s grateful that all that has changed, but he’s even more grateful for how _little_ has changed. Despite his magic, despite the lying and the hurt, Gwen encouraged him to come help her rule through the process of legalizing magic, and Arthur—well, Arthur _came back_ to him. He came back, and he holds Merlin with even more surety than he used to, and he lets Merlin’s magic touch his face every day. 

“You may want to try the other fork for that, _sire_ ,” Arthur says, the fondness in him swollen into something smug. Merlin switches utensils without even looking around at the nobles around him to make sure he’s using the right one; that’s what he has Arthur for. “And keep an eye on those two.” Arthur comes between Merlin and Gwen to refill their cups with wine. He only spills a little as he nods his head at the end of the table where two visiting lords are tensely conversing. “Their grandfathers spent hundreds of men in battle fighting over the smallest, most barren patch of Camelot, and the feud has clearly been passed down; whenever they’re together it’s a mutual search for an excuse to fight.”

“Let me go talk to them,” Gwen says, voice as steady as her stride as she goes over to charm them into unwavering loyalty to her vision of peace. To foster an amenable atmosphere, Merlin sends a gust of warm air in their direction, sets their candles a bit brighter, livens up the drying flowers between them, and magically replenishes their wine. Gwen has them smiling and listening intently in under thirty seconds.

Merlin leans back in his chair, laughing in wonder at the efficiency of Gwen’s political prowess when supported by Arthur’s historical knowledge Merlin’s magic. “What would I do without you here to tell me which fork to use?” he asks Arthur, because understatement has always been their most comfortable language. What he means is, _I’m so grateful you’re back, and I’m never letting you go again_.

Arthur grips the back of his chair and bends to whisper in his ear, “I suppose you’d have to find something else to put in your mouth.”

Merlin feels his face grow hot. He’ll never get used to Arthur saying such things, things he would never have said outside the king’s chambers, when they inhabited them. “I’m sure I never said such scandalous things in public when _I_ was a servant,” he hisses in reply, though he’s secretly delighted. Someday, perhaps, if the time comes when Camelot has settled down enough to accept a magically resurrected king, Arthur will not be so free to say such things; alternatively, perhaps, if the time comes when Camelot no longer needs a weary court sorcerer and a king who has already died once for his people, the two of them can hide away on a secluded piece of land and be free to say whatever they want to each other all day.

“You were servant to a respected king. I’m servant to a court sorcerer; you’re already scandal incarnate, no matter what I do or say.” Arthur kneels down to look up at him, to prove a point or to make Merlin’s stomach twist in longing—or, more likely, both. “They probably all think you’ve enchanted your poor, innocent manservant, anyway.”

Merlin purses his lips against the urge to kiss his insolent king in front of the whole court; the people’s acceptance of their scandalous, strange sorcerer is much more tenuous than Arthur pretends to believe, and would never withstand such a display. “If I enchanted you, I’d have enchanted you with the ability to do something useful.”

“Oh? Like what?” Arthur’s golden eyelashes catch the firelight as they flicker and something like magic steals across Merlin’s heart.

“Like doing what you’re told, for starters.”

Arthur smiles, the perfect snag of his crooked front tooth visible only to Merlin. “Some things just have to be taught the old-fashioned way.”

~~~

Merlin serves Arthur dinner and draws a hot bath as soon as they’re back in his quarters. He releases the glamour on Arthur’s face, rubs his shoulders while he eats, and climbs in the tub with him to scrub the day’s grime from Arthur’s skin.

( _Why do you do these things for me?_ Arthur asks at least once a week, apparently still struggling to fathom being worthy of a love as big as magic itself.

 _Because it makes me happy and I’m good at it_ , Merlin always answers, because a love as big as magic itself can’t fit into words. _And besides, I can’t very well appoint a servant to my manservant and have everyone find out I only keep him around to keep my cock warm, can I?_ )

Arthur pushes him up against the side of the tub and kisses him, sweet, soft, and sure. Merlin loses his breath to the rhythm of their mouths sliding and catching, and all the candles in the room start to strain toward them in pulses in tandem with the throbbing of his cock. The world outside this room fades away, pushed out of existence by the enormity of this feeling: a love as big as magic itself and then _more_ , because it’s returned, and shared, and growing exponentially with every brush of skin between them. Merlin has to close his arms tight around Arthur, to keep him from floating away in the water, to keep the sheer impossible mass of the love between them from pushing him into the ether.

Arthur pulls back to hold Merlin’s chin and look at the wreck of his mouth, and the crushed, driven look on his face makes Merlin feel choked and ready to cry or come with a second’s notice. It’s probably not healthy to feel that way as often as he does, but he wouldn’t feel magic without it.

He bites his lips and licks his teeth until Arthur kisses him again. Without loosening his tight grip, he lets his hands wander the expanse of Arthur’s back, rump, and middle. He groans into Arthur’s mouth at how perfect he feels, slick with water, softened in all the places formerly kept hard by battle and the weight of armor. Arthur breaks away to groan into the sensitive skin of Merlin’s neck when he pushes two fingers between the plump globes of Arthur’s arse and swirls his fingertips against the tight pucker of skin where he’s hottest.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, tight and urgent against the corner of his jaw.

Merlin presses with his fingertips just enough to feel Arthur’s body twitch and relax, trying to open up to him, but not enough to actually breach him. He moves his hand to squeeze the plush handful of Arthur’s arse cheek and then lets him go. “Make yourself useful,” he murmurs against Arthur’s steam-sweaty temple, “and go lie on the bed, arse-up.”

Arthur surges up to kiss him again, stealing Merlin’s breath and then stealing all his thoughts away by grabbing his cock, wrapping his hand around it eagerly and making his slow way from root to tip, as if excited to remind himself of every vein, ridge, curve, and inch of what he’s going to have inside him.

When Arthur gets up, he stands long enough for bathwater to drip from his stiff cock onto Merlin’s face. Merlin licks it up instinctively, and watches Arthur waver between smiling and letting his pupils go wide. “As you wish,” Arthur says, smile winning out, just as sarcasm wins out over any attempt at authentic seductiveness in his voice, “my lord.”

Merlin admires the sight of Arthur walking over to arrange himself on the bed, a little too aroused to let out a proper laugh at Arthur’s stubborn arrogance. “You’re absolutely no fun at all,” Merlin says as he gets up, magically dries himself, and stands over where Arthur has propped up his bottom half on a pillow and buried his top half under a duvet. He licks droplets of water from the lightly haired curves of his arse until the flesh goes rough with goosebumps under his tongue, and a funny thought crosses Merlin’s mind. “You were much more fun when I had you under a mind-control spell.”

An unintelligible sound is muffled by the duvet over Arthur’s head.

“What’s that?” Merlin asks, and then pries Arthur’s cheeks apart with his thumbs to lick across the tight pink muscle that fits so perfectly under his mouth. There’s another unintelligible sound at that.

Red-faced, Arthur emerges from the duvet. “What are you talking about?”

Merlin would feel bad about having neglected to tell Arthur about this before, but using Arthur’s state of arousal to bypass his usual cycle of guilt and shame about the past is too appealing a prospect. It takes Merlin a minute to think of a way to describe the incident without bringing up friends they’ve lost or magical prophecies; he spends that minute roughing his mouth up against the scouring hairs and hard clenching muscle of Arthur’s arse. When he pops off wetly, Arthur groans, and Merlin says, “You remember that time you woke up in the woods wearing peasant clothes that were three times too tight?”

Merlin sets back to work, making a seal with his lips and lapping with his tongue until his mouth floods with the taste of sweat. He waits for a reply. “You said I hit my head,” Arthur gasps, too breathless to sound properly accusatory.

“I lied,” he says, replacing his tongue with his thumb and feeling Arthur swell up and open around the pressure. “I had complete control over you. You did everything I suggested and then thanked me for letting you. You were such a good little boy.”

Arthur clenches tight around Merlin’s thumb and he rocks down against the pillow. Merlin wasn’t really planning on this story having any _particular_ effect on Arthur, but his heart is about to leap out of his chest at the way Arthur tenses up, clears his throat, and asks, “What did you have me do?”

Merlin gets him wetter with a spit-drenched kiss and then pushes in deeper. “I had you do the washing up,” he tries, rubbing his face against Arthur’s skin and watching every twitch.

“I was kidnapped by the world’s most powerful warlock and he had me _do the washing up_?” Arthur whines, ungrateful for Merlin’s years of careful devotion, clearly less than disturbed by the thought of his own helplessness. 

Undeterred, Merlin bites the soft swell at the top of Arthur’s inner thigh. “And you put on those ridiculous clothes for me, so tight I could look at the curve of your arse whenever I wanted.”

The arse in question pushes up against Merlin’s face. Merlin pulls his hand free to get his tongue back inside, pushing as much saliva as he can fit, letting some slip down past the seal of his mouth. The thought of all this talk arousing Arthur is arousing itself; of course, at the time, Merlin hadn’t even let himself look at his king that way, because longing freely for something he couldn’t have was too painful. He _certainly_ didn’t _do_ anything that Arthur would have been shocked to find out, and yet a little exaggeration doesn’t seem to be hurting anyone: “You were so utterly at my disposal, so eager to please.” Merlin pushes two fingers inside, watches Arthur stretch around them. The dip in his spine as he arches to take more has Merlin rutting down into the mattress for relief. “I could have had you lie like this, all day long, on your stomach, just a hole for me to play with.” Arthur lifts his hips to grind down on Merlin’s fingers, high enough for Merlin to see the heavy sway of his cock between his legs and the string of sticky fluid connecting the tip to the pillow under him. "To fill up.”

Merlin’s drunk on the velvet heat squeezing his knuckles, the needy give of flesh under his fingertips. He doesn’t stop rubbing and prodding, even as Arthur strains to speak between panting breaths: “What would you fill me up with, Merlin?”

Sometimes, Merlin really thinks he might actually be still lost in a cave somewhere and living in a dream, because a want so beautiful and all-consuming can’t possibly be real. But he’s too far gone to care if it’s a dream. “My fingers, first,” he says, summoning a vial of oil from beneath the bed. He drizzles it across his fingers and then pushes three in, driving deep. “Like this. And then—” The droplets of water across the strong columns of Arthur’s back have been replaced by fresh beads of sweat, which Merlin hungrily follows with his tongue on his way up to kiss between his shoulder blades. “Then I’d fill you up with my cock.”

Arthur flutters around Merlin’s fingers, so Merlin pulls gently out and presses the head of his cock to the swollen red pucker of Arthur’s arse. “Like this,” Merlin says, and then gasps at the hot, breathless, perfect squeeze as he eases in, “And you’ll just lie there and take it so well, take all of it.” He digs his knees into the bed between Arthur’s legs, straightens up, and pulls Arthur’s hips up to an angle until their bodies are flush, joined, inseparable because it’s just _so right_.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, his voice muffled once again where his head hangs between his shoulders.

“Don’t worry.” Merlin pulls out and back in, feeling every inch of the squeeze along his cock once, twice, and then again, before setting to a short, fast pace and punching a string of quiet grunts out of Arthur’s mouth. Once Arthur’s hands are starting to twist gruesome shapes into the sheets, Merlin stops, presses a kiss to his spine, and whispers, “I’ll fill you up with my come, too.”

“Please,” Arthur groans out, barely a word at all and almost lost to the slapping of their skin as Merlin thrusts in harder and deeper. All the life in Merlin draws to his center, drags sharp and hungry down to the bottom of his stomach, and tightens like a storm about to break into lightning. Arthur’s next words rush out in a too-fast tumble in between too-fast breaths: “You can fill me up with your magic, too.”

The words send Merlin reeling over the edge before he even comprehends their meaning. He comes blindingly hard, locking Arthur in tight and holding him there, spilling into him as he follows every roll of Arthur’s hips. “Arthur,” he gasps against the skin of Arthur’s back, where he has collapsed and intends to remain forever. His intents change, however, when Arthur’s words start filtering back to him, and he grows conscious of the artless jerking of Arthur’s hand under them. His mind comes to life: something about _trust_ , something about the smell of Arthur’s cock on the air.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Merlin says, too wrung out to sound very adamant, but his hand slapping Arthur’s away gets the point across. He pulls out beautiful-easy with a wet sound, rolls Arthur onto his back, and settles happily between his legs. “You know,” he says, pressing his face to the brand-hot length of Arthur’s cock, “You actually are a little bit fun.”

The sound Arthur makes when Merlin wets him with his tongue and swallows him down is something between a laugh and a tortured whimper.

The sound he makes when Merlin gathers his magic until it forms something like a tangible energy, as much an element as fire or water, and tentatively presses it up and inside—Well, it’s not so much a sound as it is a choked-silent scream and then the hot, thick spurts of his seed all over the inside of Merlin’s mouth. Still, the silence of it rings in Merlin’s ears like the prettiest melody he’s ever heard and buzzes throughout his sated body like the thrum of a struck bell.

“I suppose the ensorcelled version of me would have thanked you for that,” Arthur mumbles a little while later with his lips pressed against Merlin’s temple.

Merlin tightens the arm he has around Arthur’s middle and holds him a little closer. “Might have.” He sighs, casting a cursory cleaning spell and blowing out candles as he feels sleep coming for him. “But you’re my favorite version of you.”

The last words he hears before drifting off are a grumbled, tender, “…had me do the washing up…” and then he falls asleep with his smile pressed against Arthur’s shoulder.


End file.
